MKA finally debute "The Row" at NYFW!

So Mary-Kate and Ashley finally showed their Fall 2010 line of The Row at New York's Fashion week! I am a huge fan of anything MKA so I drooled the entire show... absolutely breathtaking.
The mix of textured navy blues, sheer fabric and accents of leather paired beautifully with the seamless tailoring of the dress pants, asymmetrical skirts and discretely ruched cocktail dresses. The line reflected the New York woman who claims to "only take 15 minutes to get ready in the morning"; we know these women are lying but, to be honest, they can say whatever they want when they are dressed that fabulous!

Sleep Till Death

Striking from hell’s angry grave,
We are aloft the white peaks of a mad sea.
While shells of skulls and earth remain,
The flesh of bone perishes amid the furry.

Niamh’s Bones

Under her tread, the gut of the land
Soaks her worn shoes, soiling her apron.
Forming her childlike frame into a pitiful arch
Her flesh fell into a breaking fear,
Grasping rotten potatoes buried
In the grime asylum of a bog.
Amongst the sodden packet
Of the others, she held her breath
In the midst of dying thickets;
None of which could shelter quarried lovers.
The field offered no sense or nonsense,
Only muffled winds and famished souls.
In silence, they become the maggots
Of a shivering havoc.

The Peril of Virtue

Hope is the one
Who fools us all.
The wake of an inferno;
it engulfs our trembling
lungs like a seething furnace
who burns its coal
in a fury of kindling.

It sprays fumes of purple haze
And spews a stream of flame
From a flamed vent
Far too heavy to conquer.
Cobalt ashes and a singing blaze
Silence the sound of reason,
Flogging our delirium.

A desolate sanctuary
For screeching lambs
Misguided into a wasted league,
Aloft the desperation of fate,
Are propelled into a wrath
Of void and spellbound red.

This fathomless beast becomes
our slumber and our exile.

Life’s Disease

He is standing there
On the edge of my vision
With mine eyes in his eyes,
My body the body of his hands.
In a clean forget he will
Soon take up his life and walk.

He cloaks my essence
In a delicate wild thing
That speaks for me when my
Words escape into a watchful sky;
Where stones disappear
Into a silken sphere.

Torn in a prideful burn
He preys tiredly, and weak
Until the rains rain drowns
Us both in a mindful sorrow;
Until we break and cry
Into the looming moon.

Years Long Past

My head rested heavy
On a tired window pane.
Its peeling paint caught in my hair
As I watched the storm
Invade the street, silently;
The darkness defeating any value
It holds in daylight.
Beads of rain trail one another down,
Down the glass gathering its body
Into a substantial drop
That dives into the shadows below.
Falling deep into the bliss of this seasonal pour,
My mind grows numb as my eyes trail
Silkened threads of water;
Tapestries of Atlantis’s.
The sky looked far too small
To cry such a rain.

Face of a Fate

In the midst of a Chinook wind,
A dire reminder of a Northern January,
A gentleman strolls
down an exhausted street.
Drawing his cold hands
To his bristled head,
Combing the brittle hair
Through wheat thin fingers,
He then stops.
Glancing at clod on the sidewalk,
Appearing to be his unshed tears,
He takes a deep, veiled breath.
Keeping his distance from a place
Where all is too real, too human;
A land that assigns morality
By his own position in dreary time.
Once again, staring ahead down the road
The concrete softens with the heather sky.
Walking this clotted road
Whose cracks and wrinkles
Resembles the hope of his firmament
Makes him forget,
So he continues.